The Rain in Val Royeaux
by Clariana
Summary: This is Val Royeaux, anything can happen here and does...
1. Chapter 1

Introduction: I was recently on holiday when the idea for this story first came to me. It was going to be a short one-shot, about 2,000 words. As I started writing it grew and got more complicated with fresh sub-plots blossoming in different directions. Now it's in two parts, approximately 8,000 words long. Oh well...

The Honeybee song is one of those little jewels from the Dragon Age Codex, most of the rest is my own.

**The Rain in Val Royeaux**

Alistair stood with Sorcha under the dripping eaves of the simple wooden buildings in the Trevinter _quartier_ of Val Royeaux thanking the Maker that he had packed several waxed burlap capes for the trip to Orlais.

"I thought," he said to Sorcha who was standing next to him her favourite silverite splint mail concealed by an identical cape, "You said the weather would be good here this time of year..."

Sorcha shrugged, "This is Val Royeaux, who can say?" she replied, "anything can happen here and does..."

"You were born near here?" he asked.

"Just a few blocks down, in that direction," she pointed to the east.

"Interesting neighbourhood," he remarked, taking in the tiny rough timber buildings no more than three stories high, with overhanging slate roofs, little balconies and bamboo blinds. They were on the crest of a steep hill and looking down as far as the eye could see there was nothing but similar buildings. In the opposite direction, looking to the west, he could see the spires and delicate needle towers of the Grand Cathedral sited on the highest hill in Val Royeaux, piercing the grey sky.

"This is a bohemian _quartier_," says Sorcha pronouncing _quartier_ the proper way, kar'tje, "appearances can be deceptive, some of these buildings look quite exquisite inside. Some of the people here aren't particularly poor... and this is one of the sights of Orlais," she says gesturing towards the flow of mostly young people passing in front of them.

It was early Saturday afternoon and all of them were heading in one direction, towards the west and the more prosperous areas of the city where they would provide the evening's entertainment for the city's wealthier inhabitants. Most of them were wearing darkish capes but occasionally they could catch a glimpse of some unexpected finery underneath, most were carrying things, bulky bags, rucksacks and instrument cases that obviously contained harps, lutes and accordions. Some, often the better looking, were suspiciously empty handed, or carried just a flimsy fan. They were all, even the males, wearing crude wooden platforms tied to their more elegant footwear so this did not get spattered by the mud of the unpaved thoroughfare and many were having difficulty coping with their balance. Alistair, glad for his unfussy, Fereldan boots, felt slightly sorry for them.

* * *

He and Anora had arrived in Orlais two days ago on an official visit. They had been received by empress Celene in her beautiful palace and then been the guests of honour at an evening banquet.

Alistair had expected to be overawed and he was; the food the drink, the exquisite clothes and manners displayed by everybody. He was very happy to discover that Anora and he had been automatically allocated separate sleeping quarters and also that his room was somewhat simpler and plainer that some of the others he had seen. He decided that Celene must have very reliable sources of information and, even more importantly, knew how to use then.

On the ship over he had agreed with Anora that she would be escorted by Lawler, his usual bodyguard and sparring partner, a very able rogue who hailed from Denerim, whereas he would use Sorcha, a native Orlesian and fellow grey warden.

Sorcha and he went back somewhat, they had met a few years ago shortly after the Blight in circumstances that could only be described as 'strained'. Sorcha was not the name she had been born with or the name she had used back then. In any event, he had talked to her in some detail on the trip over and made clear her that he also expected her, to some extent, to be his eyes and ears around the palace.

After the banquet the first evening she had escorted him to his bedroom.

"So what are their first impressions of us?" he asked her pulling off his boots.

"They are intrigued..." said Sorcha,

"Explain" he said lying back.

"They think of Fereldans as a bit old fashioned and a bit fuddy-duddy, and here you are, Alistair and Anora not making any pretence of living together as man and wife. To them that seems disconcertingly modern and breaks the image that they had of Ferelden before..."

"Is that good?"

"I would say that anything that intrigues them is good," said Sorcha, "it creates interest a certain _cachet_... and of course, there is your choice of escorts. Everybody above a certain status in the service wanted to talk to me this evening," she said. "Naturally they all wanted to know what you were like in bed and... Some other things..."

"So what did you tell them?"

"As we discussed... I was somewhat coy."

"Good."

"One thing, it also seems taken for granted that the Queen is involved with Lawler... and they find that extremely intriguing, too."

"Do you think Anora is aware of this?"

"Alistair, she would be very stupid if she were not, and Anora is anything but stupid... But why are you concerned about appearances, impressions?"

"We, I mean Ferelden, is in debt to Orlais and we need more credit for grain, ask yourself, Sorcha, who would you lend more money to, someone fuddy-duddy or someone with _cachet_?"

"Hmm" Sorcha thought that over. "In the spirit of things," she said, running her hand over the bleached blond stubble on her head, "if I had hair to muss before leaving this room or a dress to disarrange rather than this armour… Perhaps I would do so…"

* * *

"It is a pity it rained," Sorcha said under the eaves, "it is usually much gaudier... As for this new fashion..." She was referring to the fact that women had taken to wearing trouser suits, dark trouser suits offset by low-cut white or brightly coloured blouses and simple haircuts, "when I lived here, you should have seen the gaily hued gowns and the elaborate hairstyles..."

Alistair did not mind so much. He found the tight breeches and bolero jackets rather sexy especially from the back and what the blouses revealed far more alluring than what some of the dresses may have covered.

As they watched one of the young women dropped her bag and wobbling dangerously on her platforms appeared to have some difficulty picking it up. Since no-one around her paid any attention, Alistair hurried forward retrieved it for her.

"Mlle are you all right?" he asked in his slightly accented Orlesian as he handed it to her, because, frankly, she looked very unwell, her face was thin and pinched, her eyes looked slightly reddened and her dark blond hair was stringy and lank and yet the rain had stopped over half an hour ago. She put out a hand and steadied herself using his shoulder, smiling weakly.

"I am fine," she replied, she said in a hoarse voice, taking the rather heavy bag from him, "thank you so much..."

Alistair returned to Sorcha's side. Following the girl with his eyes as she disappeared in the throng he said, "She looked as though she was running a fever..." Sorcha's expression changed slightly but she made no comment.

They were just about to turn to go when a child came running up to them and shoved a piece of parchment into Alistair's hand and then quickly ran away again. He scanned it and handed it to Sorcha. "It appears to be an invitation to a house of entertainment..."

"Aren't you lucky?" said Sorcha.

"I am?" he said sounding not too convinced.

"Well how many people around here do you see being handed invites?" she asked.

"Yes but I'm the only one that looks like a punter... And I bet I look foreign with the boots."

"Nothing ventured, nothing gained," remarked Sorcha.

"Let's just leave..."

"Not feeling adventurous today, Alistair? As I said before, it is almost _de rigour_ for foreign dignitaries to take in some of the local colour. Orlesians can get a little touchy about that kind of thing…"

"Adventurous gets you dead in some parts." He paused, "Oh all right, but if it's sordid or poky, we leave..."

"Of course."

Alistair carefully read the address and following the haphazard numbering they discovered it belonged to a house a few doors down on the opposite side of the street.

"Aha," said Sorcha, "they scoped you... You were right. Sometimes they scan the street for likely clients, they must have thought you were prime."

They walked down a narrow passageway that separated the house from one of its neighbours and arrived at a small back yard.

"Remember the rules of these establishments..." said Sorcha who had been through them with him previously. "You pay up front, nominally for wine and entertainment which is usually music, song and witty conversation... If you require anything else, you must ask with _politesse_ and then it will be explained to you what else is available. It is considered a gross breach of etiquette to try and kiss the hostess, for example, if you have not previously clarified your expectations with her with her and she has given her consent..."

"As if I would..." he said.

Sorcha rapped on the panelled door. It was opened by a very large young man with a broad face and long blond hair in a thick plait wearing copper mail. Sorcha showed him the parchment and his face broke into a smile and he gestured for them to come inside. They entered a small reception room with a couch, some stuffed chairs and a low table.

There was a staircase at the bottom of the room leading up to a small interior balcony.

"I am Jerome," said the young man placing his hand on his chest and bowing.

Sorcha and Alistair murmured greetings in Orlesian.

Jerome then turned and called up, "Mme we have visitors."

A very young woman with a blond pageboy shoulder length haircut, a sweet face, a slightly turned up nose, and a wide mouth came onto the balcony and looked down at them smiling. "Welcome to my house this day..." she said, "how may I assist you?" she asked making eye contact with both Alistair and Sorcha. She was wearing one of the fashionable black trouser suits and a white low cut blouse with lacy frills around the neck and cuffs.

Sorcha glanced at Alistair and he nodded.

"The gentleman would like to enjoy the pleasures of your house." Said Sorcha.

"Only the gentleman?" enquired the girl raising her neat eyebrows.

"Maker, that is tempting..." muttered Alistair in Fereldan.

"Only the gentleman today." clarified Sorcha, looking at him from the corner of her eye.

Alistair removed his third best sword, the knife from his right boot and his cape and handed them all to Sorcha who smiling in turn passed them to Jerome. He then went up the little staircase.

The girl who only came up to the centre of his chest lightly bobbed her head and smiling with that wide mouth of hers said, "I am Chantal. Welcome to my house."

"Sandro," said Alistair and they air kissed.

Chantal made a gesture towards his feet and Alistair removed his boots and left them on a rack by the door. He turned and looked down, "see you later, Sorcha," he said looking down, "be good now."

Sorcha grinned up at him. Chantal opened the door and he entered.

He found himself in a little parlour with a highly waxed dark oak wooden floor. To his right was a very large window with a pulled up blind that gave way to a little balcony overlooking the street. One glance though the window told him that he was probably right as there was a perfect view of the house opposite in front of which he and Sorcha had been standing barely ten minutes earlier.

In the centre of the room was a pale wood lacquered table with five low but comfortable seats set around it. Chantal waved and he took one of the seats and she sat opposite him. Just behind her was a stand that held no less than four lutes of different size and finish.

"Is it your first time in Orlais?" she enquired. Now he was sitting in front of her Alistair noticed that there was something shiny in her mouth, for a moment that distracted him from the smooth swell of her breasts

"It is," he said.

"What do you think of it?" Chantal asked.

"Orlais is full of beautiful things." replied Alistair looking at her. Up close, he noticed that her perfume was warm and spicy with a dash of fresh citrus. It suited her.

"Your Orlesian is very good and you know how to _faire la bise_."

"I am sure you flatter me."

"Oh no, but if anyone started the flattery it was you…" she said, "would you like some refreshment?" she asked

"Yes."

"I have an excellent _blanc_."

"Thank you."

She rose and from the shelves behind her brought over a carafe and two crystal glasses she poured for them both. "_Salut_" she said holding out her glass and he gently knocked his to hers and took a sip. He was expecting something sweet and sticky but was pleasantly surprised to find it dry and refreshing.

"Now," said Chantal, "shall I sing something for you?"

"That would be nice..."

"What would you like?"

"Do you know any songs about Ferelden?"

Chantal's brow creased a little, "I know some songs from Ferelden," she said, "but not specifically about Ferelden, I do apologise for my ignorance."

She picked up the second lute and began to sing. Alistair thought that perhaps Leliana's voice was slightly better, slightly deeper, and more modulated, but there was an air of deep sweetness in Chantal's timbre and her enunciation appeared to be particularly good, probably the product of intensive training, he thought. As she sang he noticed that glint in her mouth again.

The Honeybee

Oh, fair damsel of the garden,

Arlessa of honeysuckle and rose,

I humbly beg your gracious pardon

For the offense that here arose.

Surely your work is far too vital

To be interrupted by one like me

I am in no way entitled

To earn the notice of a honeybee.

I was a fool to pluck that flower

For my lady fair. On my honour I

Swear to bring you dozens more within the hour

If you give me leave to try.

Listen traveler, if you would walk the garden paths some spring:

Mind that you don't trespass, for the gardeners do sting.

Looking through his lashes, so as to avoid rudely staring, he came to the conclusion that her tongue had been pierced and what he was seeing was the twinkle of a tiny jewel. He had heard of such piercings but he had never seen someone with one, let alone a slip of a girl. It must be very painful.

Her clear voice, the crisp wine, her perfume and her prettiness made an enthralling combination and he found himself wishing that he could sit here in front of her like this forever, certainly it had been a long time since he had felt so content.

When she finished he said "bravo." and she responded by performing a little mock bow over the lute.

"Now," she said, "what brings you to Orlais?" she said idly strumming a few of the chords.

"I am part of the trade delegation that has come with the King and Queen..." replied Alistair smoothly.

"A merchant." Chantal said, Alistair nodded. "What do you sell?"

"Mabaris," replied Alistair suddenly improvising.

"Mab..., you mean those dogs?"

"Yes," replied Alistair.

Chantal grinned widely, "But what market is there for such dogs in Orlais? They are not even good looking..."

"Well, they do say that beauty is in the eye of the beholder, but aside from that Mabaris are very special dogs, very special..." he assured her.

"Really?" she asked sounding somewhat sceptical.

"Why yes, of course. This job you do... Can it not be... a little dangerous sometimes?"

"Are you trying to scare me here?" and she moved her petite face close to his, probably just to show that she was not scared at all. Alistair wondered for a moment... and then he recalled the rules of the house.

"Your clients..." he said.

"I have Jerome."

"I have no doubt Jerome is very good," but he did, because he had noticed that Jerome, like Chantal, was very young. Alistair was willing to bet he could take Jerome in a one-on-one fight and he was certain that Sorcha could too, especially because Sorcha was not above using her feminine wiles and he was certain that Jerome would easily fall for those, if only through inexperience. "But Jerome is downstairs and you are up here... should a client get nasty... How would you call him?"

Chantal put her fingers to her lips.

"Hang on," said Alistair, "you call him and then we count how long it takes him to get here..."

Chantal put her fingers to her mouth again and emitted a very high-pitched whistle. Almost immediately from below there was the sound of panicked movement followed a few minutes later by that of heavy footsteps thundering up the small staircase. Alistair stood and stepped to one side, Chantal stood too and then the door flew open a rather out of breath Jerome stood framed in it brandishing a large, two-handed sword. "Mme..." he said. Alistair was relieved to see Sorcha right behind him, also with one of her swords drawn.

"Thank you, Jerome" said Chantal calmly.

For a moment, Jerome looked a little confused, then he shot Alistair an enquiring glance, Alistair turned his hands up in front of him to show him they were empty. Jerome, still looking puzzled, turned to leave and Sorcha raised her eyebrows at Alistair who responded by smiling, and she too left.

"Eleven seconds," said Alistair quietly once the door had closed. "You could be dead, Chantal..."

"Pah!" said Chantal, "but how would a Mabari change that?"

"Because he would be in here with you..." said Alistair. "Obviously, your clients would object to having a large armed man in the same room as them, it would kill your trade, but a dog? Curled up on a red velvet pillow with a red ribbon around his neck? Think on that."

Chantal grinned impishly as if picturing it. "I could call him _Frou-Frou_ or _Souris_..."

"You get the idea... and he would tear the throat out of anyone who so much as dared to lay a finger on you, in a violent way, I mean, of course; because Mabaris imprint to their masters or their mistresses and they are extremely loyal and protective And he would love you, only you..."

Chantal settled down on her side of the table again. "How does a merchant know so much about... such things?" she asked.

"I was a soldier once," said Alistair, and realising he may need some extra cover should things get interesting later, he was beginning to have a good feeling about that, and added, "I also fought in the militia during the Blight."

She poured more wine for them both. They drank silently, there was a rumble of thunder in the distance and suddenly clouds must have broken over them because this was followed by the patter of rain on the slate roof.

"Would you like another song?" asked Chantal.

"Very much," replied Alistair, "a song about rain, perhaps?"

Chantal smiled quietly and to sing began a sad song about a fickle lover's words being like the rain. As he listened Alistair realised that her sweet voice was strangely adapted to sad themes, he began to feel very moved again.

When she finished she made to get up, perhaps to set some lights because the room had become somewhat dark with the encroaching storm, before she could do so, Alistair leaned over and asked quietly, "can I kiss you, Chantal?"

"Of course," she replied. Chantal leaned towards him and their lips met, hers felt so very soft against his, he put his hand on her smooth cheek and closed his eyes. Their tongues met tentatively at first and then they began to play with each other somewhat. The piercing gave Chantal a distinct advantage, she would use it to graze his tongue slightly and then move away very coyly, and he would strive to seek the jewel and corner it and make it his but he never quite achieved that...

Finally, she broke the kiss and he sunk back to his side of the table, very aroused, and said, "that was..." unable to complete the phrase.

Again, she went to put on lights and he said, "Please no lights yet, another song? One about stars?" he was finding the darkness, the sound of the rain and her singing extremely restful.

Chantal sang a song that he realised was a version of the tale of Alindra and her Soldier that he had first heard from Leliana. It was one of his favourite stories, the tale of two lovers torn apart by their belonging to different social classes who were reunited again by the Maker, after death as stars in the heavens, as a reward for the purity of their mutual affection.

After she had finished they kissed again but this time when she pulled her lips away from his, she got up, took Alistair by the hand, and led him to the back room.

"Now," she said softly, "you must allow me to set some lights here but I will not set many..."

Chantal lit five little oil lamps around the bed and then returned to him.

There was some more kissing and they helped each other undress. There was some interesting foreplay involving her piercing, the hardness of the little diamond contrasting with the softness of her mouth and tongue on him. Alistair broached the question as to whether it had hurt her to have it done.

Chantal, who lay beside him, looked a little pensive for a moment, "Don't most worthwhile things hurt at some stage or other?" she said tracing with her index finger the ridge of a scar on his thigh.

"Well…" he hesitated, distracted once again by her touch.

"Was it not worth the pain of your acquiring these scars for you to end the Blight?" she insisted patiently.

"Perhaps," Alistair replied, taking her hand to his mouth and kissing it and then placing it back on his thigh, "perhaps."

Although they were virtually strangers, their lovemaking was slow and unhurried and extremely pleasurable. It had been several months since Alistair had last made love and he had always found chastity both a chore and a challenge. When he came shortly after her, quietly groaning and juddering in her warmth, his release seemed to go on for longer than usual and his enjoyment was that more intense.

Afterwards, Alistair pulled Chantal against him, wrapped his arms protectively around her, and, probably still tired from the journey, promptly fell asleep. He woke up some twenty minutes or so later to find her still within his arms, and, feeling slightly embarrassed, apologised.

Chantal smiled up at him, "you are covered for the evening, you know."

She then went to the other room and came back in with another of the lutes, propped herself up on her side on the bed and started tuning it fastidiously, her fingers loosening and tensing the chords, shaking her head when the sound was not just so. Alistair watched her fascinated. Eventually, satisfied it had been correctly adjusted, lying on her back, one leg bent, she played another song, unsolicited:

Ashes after fire,

All your passion died,

Now you stand before the pyre

With Sadness as your bride.

Well, perhaps it sounded better in Orlesian.

There were other stanzas describing Sadness' trousseau and attire, her veil, her dead eyed bridesmaids, her bouquet of tears etc. Alistair lay back with his hands behind his head, the song and the evening as a whole, made him think about himself and what he needed to be truly happy, something he had not allowed himself to do for a long time.

Eventually he decided he had indulged himself quite enough so he got up and asked Chantal where he could clean himself, Chantal offered to assist him and smiling, he refused.

Afterwards, Chantal, who had wrapped herself in a beautiful silk robe, escorted him downstairs. Formal farewells were exchanged. He left a very generous tip.

As Sorcha and he made their way back to the palace Alistair felt as if he were walking on air, surrounded by a bubble of happiness, totally disengaged from what was currently about him.

"Four hours, you were four hours Alistair, what were you doing…" said Sorcha, Alistair did not deign to reply, he vaguely thought the answer was somewhat obvious, "I had to keep that Jerome company. He started telling me the story of his life and I had to pretend to be interested, nice enough lad, but so _boring_…"

* * *

Alistair was hoping the following day would be somewhat of a lull in the official activities as he was feeling uncharacteristically tired and there was nothing scheduled for the morning and only a reception involving Empress Celene's immediate family in the afternoon. However, it turned out that Celene's immediate family was extensive, and she was immensely proud of them all so even the simple meeting, greeting and air kissing was tedious in the extreme. As with any activity that challenged his relatively short attention span, Alistair found himself carrying it out automatically.

Celene herself, standing just behind Anora and he was making the introductions, "… and these are the children of my youngest, Antoine: Madelaine, Leonor, and the one who says she never, ever, intends to get married, naughty Chantal…"

Alistair woke up with a jolt. There she was, turned up nose and all, although it seemed she removed the tongue piercing for official occasions.

"_Bonjour_ 'Sandro'" said Chantal and then laughed no doubt at the stunned expression on his face. Alistair sighed internally. Anora was already looking daggers at him although Celene herself behind him seemed highly amused, her blue eyes twinkling.

"Chantal," he said, "how charming to meet you… again."

They air kissed and Chantal whispered quickly into his ear, "_Vous étiez si doux hier_…," her victory complete.

"Shame on you, Alistair," Anora chided him a little later, "flirting with Celene's granddaughters, that kind of behaviour could have consequences, you know…"

In reply, Alistair could only smile weakly and limit himself to saying, "Anora, my dear, it wasn't _quite_ like that…"

He needed to talk to Sorcha.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

**The Rain in Val Royeaux [Part 2]**

"So what was that about?" Alistair asked Sorcha that evening, pacing up and down his room.

"Ah…" said Sorcha putting her hands in the air and letting them drop.

"I'm the one who should be going 'Ah…'" he said imitating her gesture, "what is it that the royal princess called me in front of grannie? 'A sweetie pie', something like that…" he shook his head.

"Orlesians, Alistair, we always want to know what is going on in other people's bedchambers especially those of our allies. It is our way of getting into their heads... One way or another they would have gotten to you, a palace maid, a genuine courtesan; perhaps it was best that you lay with the princess in any event she seemed to enjoy it, as for you… You do realise you had a silly grin on your face the whole way back, don't you? If they are showing you their hand, it probably means you passed and they like you. There is little that Orlesians respect more than an _amant accompli_…"

Alistair sighed, "Sorcha, come here," Sorcha took a step towards him, "closer… closer…" he beckoned. Sorcha took a deep breath. Alistair grabbed the Grey Warden pendent around her neck and pulled her even closer so their noses virtually touched. She found herself looking into his deep hazel eyes. His features had hardened. She realised he was very angry, even though it did not alter his voice overmuch "Sorcha," he said, "you are very beautiful, very clever and very brave and extremely persuasive but… You betrayed me and please don't make out that it was for my own good…"

Sorcha abruptly realised that the only way forward was honesty, "They had me Alistair, that mess I got into here about two years back, they knew all about it, they threatened to turn me over to the Grey Wardens. I would be in the Anderfals or underground before you could say, 'Maker!' or do anything, I…"

"And I was the person who helped you two years ago when you fled to Ferelden. Against my better judgment I should add, because I felt sorry for you" he cut in, "and this is how you repay me? Couldn't you at least have tipped me off as to what was going on so I was wise to the game?"

"How would you have performed with the little princess if you knew your performance was being scrutinized by the Empress no less?" Sorcha replied almost scornfully.

He tugged the pendant again, "That is a very cheeky observation but it does not detract from my main point, Sorcha… I want you to think about how you are going to make this up to me." He released her pendent and she stepped back. "By tomorrow morning, or I cut you loose, here in the heart of Orlais…"

She turned towards the door and then stopped, "There is one thing, Alistair, and believe me, I did not hide this from you, I was waiting until I got further information. Your girl with the fever? There is something going around, some illness, there was at the same last year, apparently, quite a few people died, but it was all hushed up."

He had his back to her and his arms were crossed over his chest. He nodded. "Thank you, Sorcha, you can go."

* * *

The next morning Sorcha's walk to Alistair's room that usually took her no more than five minutes, seemed to take a lifetime as simply putting one foot in front of the other was an effort. Thankfully, one of the palace guardsmen, who had a dark, messy beard and who earlier she had suspected may have wanted to get into her knickers from the looks he had been throwing her, stepped up and assisted her. Virtually holding her up, although perhaps he was holding her a bit tighter than strictly necessary. He introduced himself as Raymond.

"_Oh, c'est la grippe!_" Raymond said, remarking rather cheerfully that they had all had it at sometime or another and that it would run its course in about a week. One of his hands was inching towards one of her breasts, she noticed in a detached sort of way, if she were fit…

Nevertheless he helped up to Alistair's door and she knocked "Sorcha?," he asked,

"Yes," she said.

"Come in…"

She entered, leaving the guardsman at the door. Alistair was sitting on the edge of the bed unshaven in just his small clothes looking exhausted. His eyes were red and his complexion was flushed. His short hair which he usually arranged so carefully, was stuck to his scalp.

Sorcha tottered towards him and he steadied her just before she fell as she gained the bed.

"Do I look as bad as you do?" he asked, before coughing hoarsely.

"No." she said, "Since you are a man, you look worse…"

He smiled covering his mouth, "I feel like crap…"

"Know that feeling," she replied.

"Get back into bed, it's really not worth the attempt getting up… I'll get them to call a physician…" Sorcha managed to crawl to the door and when she got there propped herself up and opened it. "_Le Roi_…" she said and then had a coughing fit.

* * *

The physicians came, tut-tutted a little and recommended honey and lemon sweets or syrup for their throats and coughs, a light diet of broth and clear liquids and willow bark infusions for the fever. They told them that in the normal course of _la grippe_ they would be bedridden for at least five days. At Alistair's insistence a camp bed for Sorcha fixed up in his room.

Anora came to visit about an hour later and stood for a while in the doorway before either of them realised she was there because they had both dropped off.

"Alistair, are you all right?" She said eventually.

"I've been better…" he croaked, his throat hurt.

"The palace is rife with rumours that you bedded that little princess…"

"Chan… tal…" he could only squeeze out a few syllables at a time.

"Yes, that… So you did?"

"Yes, but I… didn't know…" his voice rasped, "she was a prin… cess…"

"That's nonsense, how could you not know? This is not the plot of one of those ridiculous 'romance' things you've taken to reading lately… Speaking of which…" Anora handed a few volumes to one of the guardsmen, who went over and placed them on a cabinet at his bedside "The princesses did a collection, apparently these come highly recommended, but it's all sentimental rubbish if you ask me… When you are better we shall have words, you hear? Serious words."

The door closed before he could thank her. After about a minute Sorcha started laughing and then she had another bout of coughing.

"What's… so … fun… ny?"

"Anora tells you off like a child… You like romances…"

"Good for my Or…le…sian…"

"Yes, tell yourself that, Alistair…"

The first day they really could not do that much and barely stomached the thin soup, they kept on falling asleep and waking thirsty and then falling asleep again. The second day they tried to read and chat but kept dozing off again, although their appetites came back a bit.

By the third day, although a bit thinner, they were feeling much better. The honey and lemon sweets started to taste really good and the broth really foul. They began to throw the sweets at each other and read the most heated parts of the romances out loud, attempting to do the different voices. Alistair was impersonating a character called Bella, "Please valiant Ser! Have mercy on a poor serving wench…"

"Somebody seems to be improving, don't know about that voice though…" Lawler remarked from the door.

Alistair rolled onto his stomach and put the book aside. "Well, if it isn't…"

"I've been busy." Lawler interrupted him, "Ice Queen gives me no rest, I even have to fetch her bloody herbal tea…"

"Sorry about that," said Alistair, "I know you must miss me…"

"You have no idea." Said Lawler opening and closing his hands, "no idea…"

"It's nice to be loved," said Alistair in his Bella voice.

Lawler frowned "Just get better quickly and then let's get back to Denerim, this place is driving me nuts…" He was gone before Alistair could say anything else.

* * *

That evening, Alistair asked for some proper food.

As they supped on some very tasty baked fish, Alistair asked "What's up with this? I thought _la grippe_ was meant to last a week, do you how many official functions I've missed? I need to miss a few more…"

Sorcha sighed, and turned a page, she found she was really getting in to the romances and entertaining Alistair was becoming tedious, "'the taint is a jealous mistress who assiduously drives off all other pretenders to our lives…'" she recited.

"Who said that?" asked Alistair.

"A Grey Warden mage I once knew…"

"Somebody should write that down…"

"I'm sure somebody already has." Sorcha set her book aside, "Are you still going to cut me loose, Alistair?"

"'In the heart of Orlais…'" he said quoting himself, "Um, no. Probably not. But…" He added, "It would be good if you could come up with an idea… To restore my lost, you know…"

"Honour?"

Alistair laughed, "No, that's long gone… Pride?"

"Hmm…" Sorcha replied, "What do Fereldans and Orlesians do best together?"

"Is that a trick question?"

"Not really, but I bet it's not the first thing that came into your head, though.. the second thing…"

"Ah! Fight…"

"I'll fight someone for you." Said Sorcha.

He thought that over, "Tempting though that is, I've never had a woman fight for me, you understand, it's not going to help because… Well, you _are_ a woman and Orlesian to boot… It's got to be a team effort, me, you and Lawler." He concluded. "I mean we could limit attendance just to Celene and her family, but do you think they'll enjoy it?"

Sorcha suddenly smiled, "I think they'll love it… Orlais hasn't had a decent war for nigh on twenty years," she picked up the book again, "and look at the things they are reading, the basic plot is always the same, first there's some kissing then there's some fighting, and then there's more kissing… and… 'Fin'. They've already had the kissing…"

"Actually, it was a bit more than kissing…" he remarked.

"Well, now we will give them a fight…"

* * *

Early the following day Alistair went to pitch the idea to Lawler. He found him hanging around Anora's room although, apparently, Anora was in one of the salons playing cards with Celene and the princesses.

"A fight?" said Lawler

"Well, a tourney… Weapons blunted, a ten-second count out once someone hits the ground..." clarified Alistair.

"Against Orlesians?"

"Yes," replied Alistair. Lawler was not usually slow on the uptake, but he seemed to be… twitchy today, "Well?" he prompted.

Lawler, who was about a head shorter than Alistair, leaned his forehead against Alistair's chest. "Yes, by the Maker, please, of course… Yes."

"All right then." Said Alistair, slightly taken aback by his intensity.

* * *

Sorcha and Alistair had speculated over who would be assigned to fight against them in the tourney. If Celene agreed, the prize would be a reasonable boon from the Empress. They were both of the view that the Captain of the royal household guard, Berenguer, was almost certain to be put forward, in fact, his position would allow him to do no less.

Berenguer was actually a bit of a hero, a rather dashing, handsome man from the town of Val Firmin who had made his name fighting and capturing bandits in the nearby Gamordan Peaks and liberating the people they had taken hostage.

It had been agreed that they would take on three opponents, however, by the time the Empress had given her assent to their proposal, both Lawler and Anora had _la grippe_. Sorcha and Alistair had agreed that they would still take three opponents.

When Alistair went to see how Lawler was faring, he found him lying on a poor cot in a communal bedroom so narrow that it was almost a corridor, with people rushing past him and occasionally bumping into him. He was barely conscious. Alistair lost his temper with the result that Lawler was very quickly moved to the camp bed in his room previously occupied by Sorcha.

"I wonder what they are saying about me now…" he said to Sorcha that evening while they were dining.

"They say Fereldans always stick together and that's why we lost the war… Why? Were you hoping that it would be something kinky?"

Alistair was also slightly worried about Anora, she seemed to be fairly ill. When he tried to joke that she could stop pretending to be sick since Celene had agreed to the new credit line, she just shook her head and said, "I have never understood your sense of humour, Alistair, and it grates…" He had placed some of the romances in her room wondering if he could ever catch her reading or at least leafing through one.

He spent some time by her bedside and then at Lawler's sitting quietly, reading and generally making sure the physicians were doing their job.

After two days of that, he was really looking forward to the fight.

* * *

He had not told Anora about the tourney, because as he said to Sorcha, if she heard about that she would probably have "tiny, little, cats and lots of them…" and he didn't want to make her more unwell than she already was.

He and Sorcha sat in the stands watching groups of people fighting for _l'honneur_ to fight them.

"When did you last have a real fight, Alistair?" Sorcha asked.

"Last year," he said grinning at the memory, "there were some darkspawn and then a few things that needed sorting out and… I really don't think I should tell you any more..." Sorcha looked surprised so he added, "Sometimes I do things..."

They were interested to see that one of the early contenders was Jerome who fared badly simply because he seemed to fall for every feint, Alistair did note, by the by, that Orlesians were pretty good at feinting. He wondered idly whether they had a 'feinting school' or a 'feinting academy' somewhere in the country.

After an hour or so Sorcha had to keep digging her elbows into Alistair's ribs to get to pay attention to what was going on in the field because he wasn't very interested… that was until a few mages took part. Then he was leaning forward looking on fascinated as fire, ice, electricity and other more subtle forces, some only known to mages born, and not normal run of the mill humans, played out on the field.

"It is not fair," he said, "how can the Chantry allow Celene to employ so many mages and I am, begrudgingly, at that, allowed to have just one and then only a healer?"

One of the mages, a male with short red hair who mainly seemed to deal with fire was eventually selected to be one of the three challengers. Sorcha glanced at Alistair ""When in doubt…"

"… go for the mage." Alistair said.

"Well, that's a definite weakness," said Alistair, "if they are not accustomed to fighting with a mage, especially an offensive one, or even with this particular mage…"

Alistair cast his eye over to Berenguer who was seated a few rows down to his left, his arms were crossed over his chest and his chin lowered. His whole posture seemed to radiate displeasure. _Oh good_.

He looked to Sorcha to confirm this intuition only to find she was paying even more rapt attention to the proving ground than before. One of the contenders, he noticed, was a household guardsman with a black, shaggy beard.

* * *

"I want Raymond," said Sorcha the next day as they were changing for the tourney. She had made some discreet enquiries into his background and discovered that not so long ago he had been a Captain of the Imperial Guard but had then suddenly been demoted for abusing the young daughter of a fellow guardsman.

Sorcha, who was born ambidextrous, tossed one of her swords from her right hand to her left and back with an ease and speed that Alistair knew he would never be able to accomplish.

Alistair noticed that her pale blue eyes had started to blaze with pre-battle excitement and her face was flushed, he was fairly sure his own face was flushed, too. His hands were certainly shaking as they armoured up.

They had been told their opponents were Raymond, Juncal and, of course, Berenguer.

"Keep it simple, mage first." He replied looking down and adjusting his vambrances, trying to sound calmer that he felt, he was suddenly realising he had a lot to lose.

"… then Raymond." To Alistair Sorcha seemed fixated.

"Sorcha…" he turned to her and kissed her quickly on the cheek, she looked at him, surprised. "Now I have your attention… We've spoken, we're in agreement. First Juncal and _then_ you can have Raymond, and then I will probably need your assistance with Berenguer who I suspect is very good, but stick to the plan, Sorcha, okay? Be here with me. I cannot do this without you."

At Alistair's insistence, they double-checked the fastenings on each other's armour and only once they had done that, did they go out.

* * *

As they enter the proving ground the crowd cheers, jeers and whistles. Alistair holds up his arm attempting to smile despite his clenched teeth. Sorcha runs ahead of him and performs a fast pirouette that brings even more cheers, many of them deeper.

"Flowers," he mutters as they come to a halt in front of Celene's box, "they're throwing flowers… Why?"

"Alistair… This is Orlais…" says Sorcha stopping beside him.

Something a bit more substantial drops at his feet, "And what's that?" he asks strongly resisting the urge to kick it, instead bowing with his hand on his chest.

Sorcha glances at it as she too bows, "I think it's a garter…"

Alistair sighs and straightens. "No doubt it will be smallclothes next…" he says.

"It has been known…" Sorcha replies, straightening in her turn.

"Okay, let's do this…" He looks at her, smiling quickly, and then puts his helmet on. She does likewise.

Their opponents are already waiting for them and have adopted a fairly classic triangular positioning with the mage standing between the two fighters. As they agreed, Alistair and Sorcha begin to circle them, Alistair slowly pacing clockwise, Sorcha anticlockwise. He is rather rigid, rather formal, she, laid-back nonchalantly swinging her swords so they glint in the afternoon sun. Is she whistling? Alistair cannot be sure from under his helmet.

Juncal's head is bowed as if prayer but Alistair is quite familiar with his stance, the mage is gathering power, he can feel it gently riffling over his skin. An offensive mage's defence is also his greatest impediment, so long as Raymond and Berenger stand between Alistair and Sorcha, Juncal will not be able to strike them without hitting his own fighters.

Suddenly Sorcha lunges towards Raymond, one of her swords high, the other low. Alistair makes to rush Juncal. Raymond deftly dodges the low sword and blocks the high with his own blade. Berenguer obstructs Alistair, shield meeting shield with a clang.

Raymond says something to Sorcha that Alistair cannot make out and with a graceful whirl and a laugh Sorcha, draws away from him. Berenguer and Alistair stare wordlessly at one another for a few beats, blue on hazel, and then break apart, but Juncal is slightly unnerved, and Alistair senses his power gathering falter.

Sorcha begins to monkey around, jumping from side to side. Raymond laughs and then Sorcha calls him a limp dick and he goes for her.

Berenguer cannot help but look behind him giving Alistair the opportunity he is seeking to sidestep him and rush Juncal. Juncal is knocked off his feet by Alistair's shield but Berenguer is coming at him from behind so Alistair has to turn to confront him, aware his back is now exposed to the mage.

Alistair manoeuvres around the fallen mage and takes a precious few seconds to recite the necessary words and the appropriate gesture for cleanse area, he hears Juncal groan as his mana drops. Juncal just about manages to gain his feet before the count of ten, but suddenly Sorcha bursts past Raymond and quickly hits the mage in the back. Juncal is out before he has even had a chance to cast once and crawls and then limps from the arena.

As a result of having to attend to the mage Alistair is now having some difficulty with Berenguer who is driving him backwards. As a kind of afterthought, Sorcha knocks Berenguer on the side not inflicting any significant damage but giving Alistair a precious few moments in which to recover his posture and composure and launch a savage counterattack with a flurry of blows from his shield and sword that has Berenguer retreating.

Sorcha then turns her full attention to Raymond whose very conventional fighting skills cannot cope overly well with Sorcha's unique style, especially, when she tugs down her splint armour exposing the tops of her breasts, and bends forward… Alistair has seen her do this before, surely… but Raymond does fall for it and is soon on the ground as a result. Sorcha takes her sweet time with him…

Sorcha is straddles Raymond and buffets his face a bit, then she jumps up and gives him a smart kick under his armour between his legs. There is a loud yelp and both Berenguer and Alistair flinch. Finally, she comes to support Alistair.

Berenguer is good, but he cannot really cope with both Alistair and Sorcha. He tests Sorcha but she is faster and lighter and simply parries and dodges while Alistair finds a new momentum in attack. Berenguer then turns his attention back to Alistair having identified him as the weakest in the circumstances, but in doing so has to contend with Sorcha's harrying. It is an impossible situation.

After a few minutes he says, "I yield," Sorcha hits him and he adds, "Not to that wretched woman but to you," he says addressing Alistair.

"Sorcha…" says Alistair. She hangs back.

Berenguer removes his helm and Alistair removes his and they embrace.

"Did you really have to kick Raymond while he was down, Sorcha?" Alistair murmurs to her as they head towards the imperial box, "I don't know, wasn't that a bit… Over the top?"

"The ladies liked it though, Alistair, did you not hear them squeal?" she says swiping the back of her hand over her damp forehead.

* * *

"As my prize in this tourney today I would ask for a kiss… Someone recently asked me what I though of Orlais and I replied that it was full of beautiful things and so it is; good food, wonderful wine, gallant gentlemen, and especially, charming ladies…" He paused, glanced at Sorcha as he said this and then picked out Chantal, from the crowd. She grinned, he saw the glint in her mouth.

He almost forgot the next part of his carefully memorized speech… "But none of this would be possible without peace between our two nations and that peace was forged by Empress Celene with my father. Anora and myself can only aspire to maintain it. I therefore request a kiss from the illustrious Empress as and expression of the enduring peace between our two nations."

"Pretty speech, good fight, excellent mage takedown." Remarks the Empress. A very dry summing up, Alistair thinks.

Celene's kiss on his forehead is cool as he expected, but then, in a slight breach of etiquette she runs one of her hands over his hair. It is not that she is not beautiful, quite to the contrary, but she is _formidable_, as they say, a bit like Anora, but more so. Alistair suspects she was much more to Cailan's taste than his, truth be told, he finds her positively scary.

Then the Empress surprises him

"I have something more for you. King Alistair give me your hand" She says, he does, "Your father, King Maric, gave me this when I visited Ferelden in 9:20," She slips a large ring on one of his fingers, "I remember it as if it were yesterday. At the time, it was necessary for me to sue for peace with Ferelden in order that I could consolidate my position in Orlais. I was determined not to like him and he was considerably older than me, but… Until fairly recently I was not aware Maric had _two_ sons, I am glad he did, you both do him credit. You never knew him, did you? You take after him more than you know, your looks, the charm…"

Alistair is touched, the ring is a chunky, ugly thing but no doubt antique. As an adult, he had always made a conscious effort not to allow the stigma of his illegitimacy to trouble him too much, but that was far from saying that sometimes it did not rankle. An acknowledgement of his heritage, especially unsolicited and especially coming from one of the most powerful women in Thedas, is something he knows he will savour for the rest of his days.

* * *

A few days later Chantal caught up with Alistair as he was going from sitting with Lawler, who was much recovered, to paying a visit to Anora.

"Grandmère really likes you…" she told him.

"That's good…" Alistair replied.

She hesitated. Chantal was wearing a very pretty pink gown today, he noticed. "Sometimes I advise my clients…"

Alistair was amused, "Hmm…"

"I would have two pieces of advice for you…"

"Okay, let's hear it…" He leaned against the wall crossing his arms in front of him.

"You would make a good Mabari salesman …"

"Oh yes, I always knew I missed my true calling in life…"

"No, I mean you are persuasive when you are convinced about what you are saying. As for me, I would truly have liked to have been a simple bard…"

"Is this the bit were we start feeling sorry for ourselves and each other because our blood has prevented us from developing our true talents?" He said recalling Lawler ailing on his cot and the crowds of young people walking west from the Trevinter _quartier_, "Because if it is, I'm not playing today. At least we get comfortable beds and good food. That counts for a lot… And you work for your family, anyway."

"So cynical…"

He smiled sweetly, "Got up on the cynical side of my comfortable bed today. The second piece of advice?"

"You need a _maîtresse_…"

"No, really? You offering?" he said, his smile getting even wider.

Chantal blushed. "Are you still angry with me?"

"Well… to spring it on me like that in front of granny and Anora… Tad cruel, I say…"

He paused, looking at her up and down, they will be saying goodbye soon, he realised. As was his wont, he made light of it, "Anyways, if you said 'yes', we'd only have the joint armies of Ferelden and Orlais to contend with… Piece of cake after the Blight."

"I mean someone for you to love and who would love you, and only you, in return..." said Chantal very earnestly.

"A mistress, eh? That would be a definite step up," he replied twirling the ring, a new habit. Suddenly, he was back in the Trevinter _quartier_ slowly making love to her, listening to the patter of rain on the roof. Well, at least he would always have that memory, he guessed. "I don't even have a bloody horse…" he finished rather lamely.

"No horse?"

"There are no horses in Ferelden… Unless they are living at the bottom of some very deep caves… They were all killed off by our native weeds… "

"This is one of your stories, I think…"

* * *

_Dear Chantal_

_Since you insist on being a bard rather than a princess, please find attached to this note something I hope will give you a little more protection and a lot of love. I am sure he will look very good on a velvet cushion with a big bow round his neck._

_Love_

_AT_

_PS Thank you for a wonderful evening in Val Royeaux_

The note was attached to the collar of a tiny black Mabari pup, so ugly, he was utterly adorable. Chantal called him "Sandro" and took him everywhere with her.

* * *

_Dear Sandro_

_I never heard of a knight without a horse, let alone a King until I met you. Ferelden, as they say, is different. I am sure you will treat her gently but she is stronger than she looks, so I am told._

_Chantal_

_PS Pas du tout…_

This note came with a beautiful grey filly with large lustrous eyes who, with a little encouragement, could run like the wind. Alistair called her "Princess".

**FIN**


End file.
